You’re unhappy. You’re isolated. You think you’re the cause of this unhappiness and are unworthy of affection so you’ve few friends.
Recently you lost something you think very important.
Your lover, your faith, your family, or all three.
You blame yourself for this, so it makes you neurotic, and you don’t sleep and don’t eat anything healthy anyway.
You used to take care of your appearance, but you’ve lost interest in that, so you avoid mirrors.
Sunlight bothers you, so you avoid that too, about which you’re guilty because you think it’s unhealthy and even immoral not to like the sun.
You’re not a woman of convention or you wouldn’t be here, but you like to pretend you are so people don’t notice you. But you sometimes like that as well, and can dress to draw the eye.
But then you think the men who look at you are fools, or worse, to be taken in by such an obvious outward show. So, instead you’re drawn to dark, complicated, impossible men, assuring your own unhappiness and isolation because, after all, you’re happiest alone.
But not even then because you can’t stop thinking about what you’ve lost, again, for which you blame yourself.
So the cycle goes on, the snake eating its own tail.